


Payback

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Series: Lapse of Judgment [2]
Category: Law & Order
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1995-10-30
Updated: 1995-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Movie theater meeting, sex, dinner, sex, not getting along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to "Lapse of Judgment." Thanks to Ruth and Kenna for advice, encouragement, and beta-reading.

Couples. Jack McCoy hated dining with couples. An old college friend in town, Jack wanted to catch up on old times. Instead the friend brought his wife along and they ended up ating at a fashionable, overpriced new SoHo restaurant and being very clever without having anything to say. He turned down the offer to share a cab, still rankling from the wife's discreetly obnoxious inquiries into his private life, and headed towards Houston Street. Overheard them arguing over the tip they'd left the waiter. Couples.

It was a nice night. Cool and breezy but clear. McCoy decided to walk back to Gramercy. The air would do him good, clear his mind; he had a case he needed to concentrate on.

Houston was crowded -- mostly spillover from a street festival a few blocks down, plus the usual weekend assortment of NYU students, bridge-and-tunnelers, and the SoHo smart set. Jack threaded his way through the pockets of people, reaching the intersection, glanced up and stopped cold. Across the street an all-too-familiar form. Mike Logan. McCoy stared without meaning to, taking in the sight of Logan in his long brown coat, his arm around a tall, slender girl with black hair. Logan looked up and McCoy instinctively turned away, began walking again, cursing himself for letting Logan have this effect on him.

It seemed like months -- years -- ago but in actuality it had only been a couple of weeks since their run-in. Or their head-on collision, as Jack thought of it. He'd never expected to find Logan in a gay bar, never expected to pick him up, never expected to be fucked by him, never expected to like it so much. And never expected Logan to resent being judged by his tomcat reputation.

Of course, there were other reasons why Jack avoided thinking about the whole sordid event. Foremost of these was fear -- of himself. The man who cruised West Village dives and cajoled hostile colleagues into having sex with him just didn't fit in with his self-image. In the past he had preferred anonymity; with Logan he'd taken a huge risk. It frightened him to think what else he might do.

Then there was shame. Despite his education, his intellect, his politically correct training, he still viewed his predilection for sex with men as an aberration. He hated feeling that way, but at the same time got a rush from his walks on the wild side, like he was breaking some taboo.

He respected gays who campaigned for rights and marched in pride. He envied them their certainty and openness. But that wasn't him. It wasn't Logan either, he was fairly certain. Although after their last encounter he decided to stop second-guessing Logan.

Out of the corner of his eye Jack could see Logan, across the street, following him. Maybe it was unintentional. Maybe not. Jack suddenly wanted to be anywhere else in the world but Houston Street.

In front of him was a cinema, an arthouse multiplex, a refuge. Telling himself it was ridiculous to go see a movie simply to get away from Logan, he nevertheless walked up to the box office and bought a ticket for a film which had just started.

He forgave himself his impulsive action as he rode the escalator down to Theater 2. It had been months since he had indulged in a movie; this would be a good way to relax; he could concentrate on his case afterwards. The fact that he had no idea what he was seeing was of no importance.

He reached the theater, opening the door quietly so as not to disturb the handful of people already engrossed in the film. He slipped into a seat in the next-to-last row, wondering what he had missed, waiting for something to happen. One of the characters spoke. Finnish? Hungarian? Serbo-Croatian? Jack settled back in his seat, slightly disappointed. He'd wanted to escape in some purely superficial Hollywood confection and instead found himself in a dark, subtitled film about... an angst-ridden revolutionary poet? Damn.

A few minutes later he was almost interested in the movie when something broke his attention. The sound of the door. He waited, somehow knowing... A seat behind him creaked. He heard the crunch of popcorn. Goddammit, he knew. Without turning around, he knew.

A voice very close to his left ear said quietly, "Hello, Jack."

Son-of-a-bitch.

McCoy twisted around to see Logan seated behind him, leaning forward, holding out a small bag.

"Popcorn?" Logan offered.

McCoy glared at him, turned back to the film, knowing he could never find it interesting now. He listened to Logan munching and told himself to leave. He should just stand up and go. But that required too much effort. He didn't have the will to leave, though he hated staying, hated letting Logan disturb him like this.

The munching stopped. McCoy prayed Logan would leave, knew the odds were against him.

Logan's voice, soft, whispered in his ear, "You find this interesting?"

It took Jack a few seconds to realize he meant the film. But by then it was clear the question was rhetorical. Logan's lips touched the surface of his cheek, Logan's hand travelled over his shoulder, massaging it.

"No," Jack whispered silently, aware he wasn't saying no to Logan or to himself; he was saying no to the improbability that Logan would still want him.

Mike's fingers smoothed over throat, fumbled into his collar and unbuttoned it, unknotted his tie. Shifting forward, Mike slid his hand down Jack's shirt, over his chest, found a nipple and pinched it. Jack closed his eyes, bit his lip to keep from whimpering.

Logan ran his other hand up Jack's neck, entangled his fingers in Jack's thick, greying hair, pulling his head back, gently kissing his throat. McCoy felt like he'd just been given an injection -- his heart was speeding, pulse humming, blood rushing to his lap.

Mike's lips skimmed over his skin, moist, teasing. His fingers, warm, rough, toyed with Jack's nipple, skated across his chest. Jack took a deep breath. He was aching. He slipped one hand into his pocket and adjusted his underwear, annoyed, fascinated, that Logan could get him so aroused so quickly.

"You hard?" Mike murmured, breath hot against Jack's cheek. Jack nodded. "Show me. Let me see."

Jack remembered they were in a movie theater. He hesitated, glancing around, feeling slightly embarrassed even though there was no one around them. He slowly unzipped his fly, smoothed back his trousers, unsheathed his erection from his underwear. The movie's glow painted it in soft blue and warm grey shadows.

Jack felt Mike's lips curl into a smile and heard a low mmmm of approval. Nuzzling above Jack's ear, Mike kissed Jack's cheekbone. His hand slipped up Jack's chest.

"Guess what, Jack," he whispered, his lower lip catching Jack's earlobe. "I love giving head."

McCoy held his breath, letting the moan die in his throat. He exhaled, feeling Logan's hands settle on his shoulders, holding him against the seat.

Mike kissed his neck, parting his lips to capture Jack's skin. He parted his lips further, deepening the kiss, warm, liquid. Jack imagined Mike's lips around his erection, the kiss swallowing him; his cock throbbed, a feverish warmth coursed through him, he dug his fingers into the upholstered seat.

Mike's kiss flowed over Jack's neck; he slid his tongue over Jack's flesh. Licking, moistening, dabbing, teasing. Jack's heart was pounding furiously, it was an effort not to pant. Mike's tongue twisted across his skin, skimmed his throat, trailed along his jaw, settled just below his ear and feasted there.

Jack, feeling trapped inside a volcano -- suffocating, sizzling -- glanced down. His cock glistening in the dim light, urgent, brimming. Mike slurped at his skin and Jack, beyond control, plunged his hand between his legs, grasped his cock, tugged at it.

Mike was sucking on his neck, tongue writhing, wet, molten. Jack longed to feel Mike's mouth around him, imagined Mike suckling him, teasing the head, laving the shaft. He pulled harder, lost in the sensations -- Mike's moist, full lips, the surface of his tongue, his steaming breath. He pulled harder until his cock jerked in his hand. A shudder rippled through his body as he came.

Slowly, dizzyingly, he fell back to earth, catching his breath. Mike loosened his hold, draped one arm around him and planted a short kiss on his forehead. Jack looked down. His belly, his hand covered in semen, his cock coated, wilting.

"Shit," he muttered.

Mike chuckled softly. Jack turned his head, gave him a sidelong look. In the cinematic light, Mike's expression said it all: 'burned.'

Son-of-a-bitch.

McCoy sighed in disgust. "Bring me some napkins or something," he hissed. Logan patted his shoulder.

"Sure."

Logan got up, paused at the end of the aisle, leaning forward to whisper, "Stay there."

McCoy's withering look was lost in the gloom. Logan left the theater. Jack sat, uncomfortably, protective hand covering his nakedness, cooling gel pooling at the join of hip to thigh. He focused his eyes on the movie -- what in the hell was he watching -- and abruptly lost interest. Stricken by a terrifying thought: what if Mike didn't come back?

Fucking idiot, he told himself. He deserved what he got. Letting Logan affect him like this. Unable to control himself, acting like a horny sixteen-year-old. He was almost ready to give up, damning both his soul and Mike Logan to hell, when Logan returned and sat down next to Jack. He dropped a wad of napkins on McCoy's lap.

McCoy dabbed at the mess, a string of epithets against himself and Logan resounding in his head. He used up all of the cheap paper napkins, rearranged his undershorts and zipped his trousers. He stuffed his shirt into his pants, frowned. His shirttails were sopping.

A sharp intake of breath captured his attention. He looked over at Mike -- who was sitting there holding something between his legs. McCoy squinted in the low light. It was a cup of ice. Mike pressed it against the bulge in his trousers. McCoy smiled, amused -- but only briefly. How had they gotten to this point? What on earth were they doing to each other, and why? He turned back to the movie, unhappy that he couldn't answer these questions.

After a while Logan set down the cup of ice and stood up, a bit awkwardly, Jack thought. He started to leave and Jack followed him, equally awkward, buttoning his jacket over the dampness in his trousers.

The plush corridor outside the theater was deserted. Logan stopped, faced Jack. They stood there, a few feet apart, watching each other. McCoy felt as if there were another part of themselves -- some ethereal, disconnected being -- that communicated, apologized, forgave, understood. Unfortunately, that being wasn't sending signals back to their corporeal selves.

He looked into Mike's eyes -- in this light, blue -- thought he saw regret, longing. A mirror image, perhaps. He said quietly, "Come home with me."

For the briefest instant, there was a spark -- a flame of passionate interest -- in Mike's eyes, then the shutters dropped. As quickly as the fire kindled, the ice came. Logan's stance stiffened.

"No, I can't," he replied in a cool, even tone. "My date's waiting upstairs. I told her I had some official police business to take care of."

McCoy almost reeled, as if slapped in the face. He stared, wide-eyed, disbelief swiftly replaced by disgust.

"You bastard," he spat out.

Logan blinked slowly, face a mask, grinned obscenely.

"Yeah," he said. He turned and stepped on the escalator, it carried him up, out of McCoy's line of vision. McCoy stood there, alone, incredulous, angry.

Revenge was stupid, futile, meaningless.

But as he rode the escalator up to street-level, he vowed that one day, somehow, he would get even.


	2. Chapter 2

No one was happier with the jury's guilty verdict on Tony Bruschelli than EADA Jack McCoy. An impressive win, one he'd worked hard for, and now he could enjoy the victory for a short interval before the next tough case came along.

It was Claire's idea to celebrate at a chic new Upper East Side restaurant, and it was Claire who extended the invitation to the detectives who had investigated the case -- Lennie Briscoe and Rey Curtis.

Kincaid and McCoy arrived at the restaurant first, sat down, ordered their drinks, and a few minutes later were joined by Briscoe and... Mike Logan. Briscoe sat down next to Claire, leaving the seat on McCoy's left free. Logan stood there, hesitating, and McCoy smiled warmly, enjoying his discomfort.

It had been three months since their chance meeting on Houston Street. That bitter memory of humiliation -- whacking off for Logan's enjoyment in a movie theater -- was still etched into McCoy's psyche. He had vowed revenge though he hadn't actively sought it, but tonight... Tonight he believed fate had played into his hands.

"Detective Logan," he greeted. "Sit down, join us. I didn't expect to see you tonight."

Logan mumbled something noncommittal and seated himself next to Jack.

"Logan was first on the scene on the Bruschelli murder," Claire explained. "Before the investigation was turned over to Briscoe and Curtis."

Jack graced Logan with a patronizing smile. "How fortunate for you," he remarked.

Logan's frost-bitten, steady glare fixed on him. He met it unflinchingly, not about to back down.

Briscoe was chewing on a breadroll. "Curtis couldn't make it. Family emergency. So I asked Mike along."

"And we're thankful you did, aren't we, Claire?" McCoy said pleasantly, turning his attention to Kincaid, who looked puzzled.

Logan picked up his menu. "You're paying for this, I hope," he muttered.

"Why, of course," Jack replied, thinking that he would have to make Logan pay for something.

\-----

The meal progressed uneventfully. Neutral conversation, the warming effect of the wine, the delicious food. Logan remained sullen, studiously avoiding McCoy's gaze. It occurred to Jack that Logan must have known he'd be here tonight. He wondered what reaction Mike had been expecting, content that apparently he hadn't met those expectations.

He stole a glance at Mike, whose attention was devoted to his entree. Dressed in his mundane work clothes -- Oxford shirt, bright plaid tie, navy blue suit. For a moment it was difficult for Jack to believe he'd ever seen him out of his clothes at all. He felt a twinge of regret that things hadn't worked out better -- a feeling he was getting used to.

Still, now was no time for sentiment. He recalled Mike's smooth refusal in the cinema, the way he stepped on the escalator and rode off to join his date. Heartless bastard. Time to shake things up a bit.

McCoy let his knee collide with Mike's and kept it there, brushing their legs together. Logan's eyes darted to him, Jack pretended not to notice. Logan moved his leg further away.

Jack sipped his wine, let his left hand fall to his lap. Sitting forward, he carefully reached over and rested his hand on Logan's knee. With a clank, Mike set his fork down and stared at Jack, fury blazing in his eyes. McCoy smiled placidly, not shrinking from his glare. Lennie and Claire chatted on, oblivious, and Jack joined their conversation.

Logan continued eating, grudgingly it seemed. Jack left his hand where it was for a minute or so before venturing further, sliding his fingers up Mike's thigh in a slow, lazy movement.

Mike's reaction was almost nonexistent. Only Jack could have caught it. He paused in chewing and blinked once. That was all. But it satisfied Jack's vindictive streak. He wanted to laugh.

Jack was only just getting started. He continued caressing Logan's thigh, noticing when the temperature of the flesh beneath the fabric began to rise. Then he reached further, careful to arrange his position to hide his subterranean actions from their companions.

He was more fortunate than he had expected. Logan dressed to the right. Jack's fingers tripped over the tight bulge nestled against the thigh. His hand stayed there, gently groping the solidifying mass.

Mike was losing it. He clumsily reached for his water glass and took a long drink, simultaneously casting a pissed-off look at Jack. He picked up his knife and fork, set them down again, sat forward -- moving deeper into Jack's grasp -- propped his elbows on the table and ran a hand through his hair.

What amused Jack the most was that Mike could have stopped him. He could have reached down and removed Jack's hand, moved his chair out of Jack's reach, made a cutting comment only Jack would decipher -- any one of a hundred little things to call Jack's bluff. But he didn't. The evening was going better than Jack could have imagined.

Finally Logan made a move. He picked up his napkin, brushing Jack's hand away in the process, and excused himself from the table. McCoy settled back, amused, and waited a couple of minutes before excusing himself also.

There was no one else in the men's room. Jack couldn't see Logan, but there was a faucet running down at the end. He walked up to it, ran his fingers under it -- cold water -- and glanced over at the stall opposite. Mike hadn't closed the door all the way. McCoy leaned against the marble panel next to it and flicked the door open with one finger. Logan stood within, tie cast back over his shoulder, trousers in a pool around his ankles, fumbling in his underwear. He started as the door swung open, glancing over his shoulder, shut his eyes in relief when he saw who it was.

"Jesus, Jack," he said, relief edged out by irritation. He turned back to his task, placing a wet paper hand towel into his undershorts. "What the hell are you doing?" Logan asked, voice reverberating in the marble and porcelain space.

McCoy stared pointedly at his self ministrations. "You're asking me?"

Logan glowered at him. "You know what I mean," he muttered, throwing down the paper towel in disgust. "Hand me another, would you?"

McCoy grinned sadistically, but doused another hand towel in cold water and brought it to Logan, whose attempts to quell his erection were not, it seemed, entirely successful.

"Need help?" Jack offered blandly. Logan didn't even bother responding. With an exasperated sigh he shoved his undershorts down and wrung the water out of the towel over his still faintly-aroused cock. "Another one," he requested, hand gesturing for more. Jack complied.

"This is about the theater, isn't it?" Mike said, anxiety leaving his voice as his endeavor became successful.

McCoy didn't reply. "You owe me a blow job," he said, casually examining his fingernails.

"What?!" Logan exclaimed, pulling his underwear up. He stared in angry surprise, reached for his trousers. "Fuck you," he said.

"Yes. But first the blow job," Jack replied, staring him down.

Logan put his hands on his hips. "What -- here?" he asked, challenging.

Jack pat his shoulder. "My place. After dinner. You know how to get there," he said, walking away, shoes loud and sharp on the tile floor.

\-----

It was after midnight. Jack was lounging on his sofa, collar undone, sleeves rolled up, reading the newspaper when the doorbell rang. Although Jack had no reason to expect Mike to show up, he never doubted for a second that he would. Despite all their misunderstandings, they knew each other too well.

Abandoning the newspaper he went to answer the door. Logan, brown leather coat over his suit, leaning against the door frame. They stared at each other for a moment.

"You fucking bastard," Logan greeted contemptuously.

Jack reached out, plunged his fingers into Mike's thick, brown hair. Pulled him inside and into a frenzied kiss. Hands searching, exploring each other as if for the first time. Biting, ravenous for each other, they moved across the floor to the stairwell.

Logan, one arm free from his coat and jacket, pressed Jack up against the wall and Jack kept them bound together in the incessant kiss. He sank to the floor, taking Mike with him, instantly aroused when he felt Mike's legs slide between his own.

Eventually Jack realized how uncomfortable he was, crushed against the hardwood floor, head against the wall, bottom stair slicing into his side. Reluctantly extracting his limbs from Mike's hold he stood up and slowly climbed the stairs. He paused at the top, looked back. Mike in an unkempt heap at the foot of the stairs, eyes darkly glowing -- naked, primeval lust -- watching him. Mike tugged off his tie, started to follow.

\-----

On his bed, the sheets banished, stripped, flesh on fire, legs spread. Watching, pulse hammering, as Mike, bare, moved like a hunting animal, descended upon him, capturing his taut erection between his lips, rolling his tongue around it. All the time keeping his eyes locked on Jack's. Expressionless yet revealing every expression -- desire, delight, power, anger.

Mike lifted his chin, disengaging. Jack's fingers outstretched, twisting in Mike's hair. Mike's eyes glittered and he looked down. Jack's cock damp, seeping. Mike slid one hand up Jack's thigh and grabbed the shaft, the base of his palm grinding against Jack's balls. Jack's breath cracked in a gasp. Ripples of pleasure, pain, spread beneath his skin.

Holding the shaft firmly, Mike leisurely inspected it. For real or a tease Jack didn't know. Mike, balancing on his elbows, lifted his other hand, ran a finger over the tip, tasting the fluid bead his finger encountered.

Lips closed, he kissed it, gradually parting his lips, letting the tip of his tongue dab at the head. Jack's hands balled into fists and he thrust forward in intoxicating agony, but Mike's hold kept him down. Mike's eyes flitted to his, smirking, then with deliberate slowness he enclosed his lips around the head.

Jack let out a breathy moan as Mike's wet tongue molded around him. Mike's hand jerked, Jack's eyes shot open; he looked down, about to melt as Mike sucked on the head, hand pumping the shaft.

An inferno blazed over him, Jack lost awareness, only focused on Mike's steady drinking, the velvet feel of his tongue, his lips, his hand. Jack was on the brink, the deluge welling up inside him, when there was a split-second break -- a terrible, wonderful cessation as Mike's hand let go. Fear, frustration, anticipation mingling, Jack watched. Mike's mouth slid over him, taking him in full, devouring him in warm wetness. A growling sigh escaping him, Jack thrust against Mike's throat, semen shooting forth, ecstasy raking through him.

Swept into another plane of existence, Jack didn't really notice Mike releasing him, moving from him. Contentment drowning him, he opened his eyes, saw Mike next to him, back propped against the headboard.

"Satisfied?" Mike asked.

"Just about," Jack said, eyeing Mike's cock, magnificently hard, rising from the tangle of dark hairs, a deep red, enticing.

He rolled over, onto Mike's legs, his mouth hovered over Mike's cock. He looked up, their eyes met. Mike bit his lower lip anxiously.

Jack circled the base with his tongue, trailed his lips up the shaft, down again, up again, teasing. He opened his lips, let his teeth barely skim the surface as he enveloped the hot, heavy mass. Curving his tongue around it, he urged it forward, the head pressing against the roof of his mouth, slightly salty pre-come leaking out, he lapped at it.

Hand buried in his hair, Mike shifted, slid one leg over Jack's shoulder. He pushed his cock deeper, Jack's tongue rippled along its length, inviting, tasting its heat, its odd sweetness; his mouth watered for more.

Mike's breath came to him in short, deep gasps. Beneath and around him Mike writhed, hips slowly starting to rock as Jack sucked on him, long, thirsty draws. Mike swelled inside him, Jack drank faster. Mike exploded, filling his mouth, his throat, with thick, tangy come. Jack swallowed as the final rush of semen shot forth, swallowed again, rose up, gently relinquishing.

He lay on his back, feeling an odd mixture of satisfaction and distaste. Satisfied that he could give Mike such pleasure; briefly queasy from the creamy consistency and bitter taste.

Feeling a sudden urge to brush his teeth, he sat up. Mike was motionless beside him, Jack departed before Mike could say anything. He didn't want to hear whatever Mike had to say -- it was sure to be something cold and cutting, cynical. They'd just had hot, urgent sex -- now wasn't the time for words.

But when he returned, Mike had not moved. Was still propped against the headboard, legs askew, one knee raised, palm upturned where his hand had held Jack's head. Asleep. Looking incredibly vulnerable, incredibly sexy. Jack settled into bed, covered him with the blanket, fell into sudden oblivion.

\-----

Jack was dreaming, drowning in his subconscious. He was on a raft, lost at sea, the waves lifting him, setting him down. A cloud blotted out the sun. Then the cloud descended, smothering him.

He woke up, brain still half-dreaming, eyes searching for the light until he realized it was still dark. There was a heaviness on his shoulder, a weight across his legs. Mike curled up around him, asleep. No, not asleep. Moving softly against him, fingers exploring his side, chest, gentle kisses trailing over his neck.

Jack held his breath, frozen for a moment, gradually letting Mike warm him. Amazed, confused by Mike's tenderness. Mike captured Jack's legs between his own and balanced over him, their bodies barely brushing together. Jack wished the light were better. Mike was being extremely sexy -- he wanted to see. But he dare not move. He was subject to an expert seduction, he was not in control here, he was loving every second of it.

Mike bent his head down, left a spiral of warm kisses over Jack's chest. Dragged his lips over Jack's right nipple, not quite kissing, not quite biting. Jack's pulse leapt. He ran his hands up Mike's arms, shoulders, clutched his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Which Mike resisted, pausing for a second to initiate, to take control. As their lips met, Jack surrendered.

Mike slipped one hand under his hip, the other beneath his shoulder, and soldered them together. His tongue ravaged Jack's mouth, invading him with sweet, fluid warmth. Jack's hands grasped his flesh, welcoming the crushing weight of him.

Mike moved, let one leg sink between Jack's, nudging them further apart. His thigh rubbed against Jack's burgeoning erection. Jack responded by pressing his captive thigh between Mike's legs. His hands slid down Mike's back, held his hips, pulled at him.

Mike fed on his neck, gently biting. He ground down, his stiff cock like hot metal against Jack's skin. His hand slid over Jack's ass, fingers kneading, spreading Jack's legs with his thigh.

One finger penetrated, dry and intrusive. Jack's body jerked in surprised acceptance. Mike paused then. Lifted his head, kissed Jack softly, whispered, "No?"

Jack couldn't speak. He was afraid any decision he made would be the wrong one.

Mike's lips, warm and smooth against Jack's cheek, whispered, "Yes?"

Jack kept quiet, let his fingers glide over Mike's firm buttocks, up his smooth back, dancing over his vertebrae.

Mike sighed in the silence. "No? Yes?" he said, his voice loud in the night-still room.

Jack said quietly, "No. Yes."

Aware that his indecision was a non-decision. He already knew what the answer was.

Mike apparently did, too. Or didn't care what the answer was. Releasing Jack, he stretched across the bed and reached for the bedside table. Jack, feeling cold and exposed, missing the smothering heat of him, listened to his blind fumbling in the drawer, mentally inventorying the sounds.

Then Mike returned, again gentle, nuzzling Jack's neck and warming him with kisses as two fingers penetrated, wet, inviting. Jack half-sighed, half-moaned as they left him and Mike planted himself between his legs. Mike bent down and kissed his forehead, moved his arms, lifting Jack's legs. And a momentary thought slapped Jack's mind: no condom... Oh goddammit... Then, oh, it didn't seem to matter.

Mike was in him, filling him beyond limit, beyond reason. Moving inside him, this time slowly, carefully, achingly sensual. Jack closed his eyes, yielding to him, feeling Mike's breath traveling over his body, back and forth, a flowing rhythm. Had a strange sensation that he was resting on waves, like his dream.

Mike's cock pressed into him; his legs were locked over Mike's hips, his whole body rippling in the extremes of pain and ecstasy. His hand found Mike's hair, ensnared itself there.

Mike pushed in deeper, hard, massive heat. Jack groaned, soaking from the pleasure of it. His cock throbbed, torturously erect and begging for release. Mike wrapped one hand around it, gave it a tug, Jack almost passed out from the blissful aching.

Jack lost himself to the rhythm, his body rocking with Mike's, swallowing his blazing warmth, his passionate energy. Letting Mike drive him to the edge of total immersion, total unconsciousness.

Mike tugged at his cock again, harder, again. It welled. Jack moaned, fingers digging into Mike's hair, scraping his skin. Mike jerked on him, faster, and Jack burst, a deluge of semen covering him. Was still in the throes of climax when Mike came inside him, thunderous, a silent explosion, a flood pouring into him.

Body wracked with exhaustion, senses overloaded, Jack was unaware of Mike leaving him, only aware when Mike collapsed next to him, partially over him, breathing rapidly, deeply. When Jack rediscovered strength he bent his head, kissed whatever part of Mike was closest -- it felt like his shoulder.

"Oh, god, Mike, that was..." he murmured, leaving the thought unfinished. Mike's pulse slowed. He moved onto his side, touched a finger to Jack's lips.

"Yeah, it was," he said.

Jack wanted to get up and wash, but he couldn't move just yet. His limbs felt like cement, he was still too high to form thoughts. Without meaning to, he dozed off.

\-----

He awoke again in weak daylight, still feeling slightly euphoric and desperately wanting to bathe. He sat up and got his bearings. He was alone in the bed. Registering the fact but not dwelling on it, he got up and went to shower.

The shower renewed his senses, his ability to reason. Wrapping up in his well-worn robe, he wandered back to the bedroom, and not finding Mike, he headed downstairs.

Mike was sitting at his kitchen table in white T-shirt and undershorts, drinking a mug of coffee and reading the newspaper. He had his feet propped up on the other kitchen chair. Jack stood in the entranceway, taking in the sight, troubled by the picture of domestic serenity it presented.

He went over to the coffee pot. Mike did not look up from the paper. Jack glanced down to see what he was reading. The sports page. Of course.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter drinking it, since Mike showed no inclination to free the other chair or otherwise acknowledge his presence. At last Jack simply pushed Mike's feet aside and sat down, watched Logan read the paper.

Mike set the paper down, drank his coffee. The silence of the kitchen was overwhelming. Jack listened to the hum of the refrigerator, sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"How come we can have great sex and we can't even be civil to each other?" he asked aloud, though he was addressing himself more than Logan.

Logan was toying with his mug, one finger pushing it across the table and back again. He watched it moving, said nothing for a minute or so.

"I don't know, Jack. Maybe we hate each other." He took a sip of coffee. Jack looked up.

Hate? Was that what it was? He considered, suspected Logan was baiting him. He remarked wryly, "Yeah, that could be it."

Mike's eyes met his, guarded. Slowly revealing anger. "That was some stunt at the restaurant, you know. I should wring your neck for that."

McCoy smiled. "Yes, that was pretty good, wasn't it?" he said mildly. "Not quite as cheap and tacky as the theater, though."

Logan's anger cooled. All things considered, they were equal. Jack wondered when they could stop keeping score.

What was it about Logan that drove him to this? Instilled him with the strange desire to conquer and be conquered. Why -- how -- did Logan manage to push all his buttons at once? It was infuriating.

Jack decided to open up, hoping to chip away some of Logan's armor. "I wanted...," he began haltingly, staring into his coffee. "I wanted to tell you, that was... that was incredible... Nice, you know..."

Mike gave a short laugh, sitting forward, resting his arms on the table. He carved into the newspaper with his thumbnail. "Nice," he repeated, softly mocking. "Yeah, it was nice."

Silence. Jack started to feel hollow inside, thinking this was a huge mistake. Open up to Mike Logan and get ripped to shreds. Twenty-plus years as an attorney, he should've known the value of silence.

Before Mike could say any more, Jack stood up, left his empty mug in the sink. "I don't know why I bother," he muttered, stalking out of the kitchen.

\-----

He was upstairs looking for a clean shirt, wondering why he didn't seem to have one when the housekeeper had just paid a visit, when Mike appeared in the doorway, rested an arm against the doorjamb, had his other hand on his hip. McCoy acknowledged his presence with a quick look, nothing more. Continued hunting for a shirt, continually aware of Mike's stance, Mike's gaze.

At last Mike left the doorway, came to stand right behind Jack, cupped Jack's shoulders in his hands.

"Jack," he said softly, voice close to Jack's ear, "don't fight me like this. Look what you're doing to yourself."

McCoy tensed. Closed the dresser drawer and stood stock still. "I didn't start the battle, detective. You did."

A wave of anger passed through Logan, Jack felt it. But when he spoke, his voice was still soft, soothing.

"Give it up. It doesn't matter now, Jack." He pressed closer, let his arms slip down, embracing Jack. "Does it?"

Jack felt his body, warm, powerful, finely carved, against the length of him, wanted him so much he could hardly think of anything else.

"Does winning still mean so much to you?" Mike asked, his lips against Jack's ear. "Haven't you found something better than winning?"

Jack didn't understand. The yearnings of his body were distracting his mind. What was Logan saying? Something better than winning? Oh yes. Something better indeed... Losing. Giving up, giving in.

He closed his eyes, tried to imagine what it would be like. Logan making the directions, Logan leading him on, Logan having the last word. His mind stretched back to that first encounter, Logan's surprising candor... But his pride rebelled. This was not then. Everything had changed.

Finally, he answered Logan's question.

"No," he said, opening his eyes, resting his hands on the dresser. "Have you?"

Logan released him, stepped back, laughed half-heartedly. Jack turned around, posture straight, in control, closed off.

"Well? Have you?" he repeated.

Logan shook his head. "I guess not," he said, smiling bitterly. He looked around the room, started collecting his clothes, getting dressed. Jack resumed his search for a shirt.

Logan was dressed. He paused in the doorway, clapping his hand on the door frame.

"Take care, Jack," he said, then he was gone. McCoy heard him hurrying down the stairs, the door opening, slamming shut.

And again he was alone in his room, wondering if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. Wondering if he had let his pride prevent him -- or save him? -- from getting too close to Mike Logan.

Wondering if losing really was better than winning, when the game was not worth playing.

(the end)


End file.
